


PTB's Writing Challenge 2013

by ureshiiichigo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 2013 Writing Challenge, M/M, Pre-Slash, Project Team Beta
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 02:06:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ureshiiichigo/pseuds/ureshiiichigo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each chapter will be a little over 1000 words, and based on one of the prompts for <a href="http://projectteambeta.com/writing-challenge-2013/">Project Team Beta's Writing Challenge for 2013</a>.</p><p>Sherlock and John, post-Reichenbach. This may turn into a coherent story; it may not. Rating is for future chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prompt #1 – Rocky Horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Challenge Number/Title: [Prompt #1 – Rocky Horizon](http://projectteambeta.com/writing-challenge-2013-prompt-1-rocky-horizon/)  
> Date Posted: 26 January, 2013
> 
> Fandom: Sherlock BBC  
> Rating: G  
> Genre: Canon  
> Content Descriptors: Fluff/Angst  
> Character Pairing: John/Sherlock
> 
> Beta'd by [percygranger](http://archiveofourown.org/users/percygranger)

> **Sent:** August 3
> 
> **Subject:** A case
> 
> Dear Mr. Sigerson,
> 
> When you’re done faffing about Berlin, I need your help. Client came last week asking about some missing jewels or some such rubbish. She was wearing an expensive suit, but all her jewelry looked fake, and her skirt had been re-hemmed. Said I’d take a look; thought you might be interested.
> 
> John
> 
> p.s. Mrs. Hudson wanted some chocolate next time you’re in Switzerland.
> 
> p.p.s. Flat’s too quiet.

 

> **Sent:** August 4
> 
> **Subject:** Dull.
> 
> Dr. Watson,
> 
> The case is beneath my attention. I’m sure you’ll do tolerably well without my assistance. I applaud your attempt at exercising observational skill, however.
> 
> S
> 
> p.s. France is much better for chocolate.

 

> **Sent:** August 6
> 
> **Subject:** Well, excuse me for not being a genius
> 
> Dear Mr. Sigerson,
> 
> It’s always refreshing to receive one of your emails. Every time I start to forget what a wanker you are, you manage to remind me. My faith in your petulance has been reaffirmed.
> 
> I’m still looking into that case, no thanks to you. Might ask Greg for help if I get stuck. Clearly I can’t rely on you.
> 
> I’ll let you know when I figure it out.
> 
> John
> 
> p.s. The flat is still too quiet.

 

> **Sent:** August 12
> 
> **Subject:** Never mind
> 
> Dear Mr. Sigerson,
> 
> It was insurance fraud. Just in case you were curious.
> 
> Because I know you were. You can’t fool me.
> 
> John
> 
> p.s. Write me back.

 

> **Sent:** August 30
> 
> **Subject:** Are you dead?
> 
> Dear Mr. Sigerson,
> 
> I finally know how Sherlock felt when he got bored enough to shoot the walls.
> 
> Been working locum. Sarah keeps mothering me and trying to give me extra shifts so I won’t get bored. I think she doesn’t realise how counterproductive that is.
> 
> Started dating this girl Mary. She’s lovely. I wish you could meet her some time. She’s the first I’ve dated in the past year who doesn’t mind when I ramble on and on about my dead flatmate.
> 
> John
> 
> p.s. Write me back, you arse.
> 
> p.p.s. If you’re dead, I will kill you. 

 

> **Sent:** September 1
> 
> **Subject:** I’m serious
> 
> If you don’t write me back, I swear I’ll smash your violin.
> 
> John

 

> **Sent:** September 4
> 
> **Subject:** (None)
> 
> Just write me back. Please.

 

> **Sent:** September 8
> 
> **Subject:** Impatient much?
> 
> Dr. Watson,
> 
> The case sounded marginally interesting, though a bit obvious, which is why I declined to look into it. I had more urgent matters diverting my attention. I am glad, however, that you were able to solve it without assistance.
> 
> I’m done with Berlin. I have been in Nepal for the past five weeks. Shockingly enough, internet access tends to be a bit spotty in the Himalayas.
> 
> I went up to Mt. Everest with an expedition. Sadly, one of the climbers - an elderly man, ex-military, with a nasty temper - did not survive the return journey.
> 
> Perhaps instead of working locum, you should speak with the Yard to see if they would give you any cold cases. It may help hone your observational skills. Then again, it may not.
> 
> Mary sounds dull, but tolerable. If she’s still around by the time I return to England, perhaps I will get the chance to meet her. I highly doubt that will be the case, however.
> 
> I hope that my violin is still intact. I intended to play it for you when I returned.
> 
> S

 

> **Sent:** September 9
> 
> **Subject:** Thank you
> 
> Mr. Sigerson,
> 
> Thank you for writing me back. You’re still an arse.
> 
> I told Mary what you said and she agrees that you’re an arse.
> 
> I don’t go to NSY too much these days. Not as many friendly faces as there used to be.
> 
> John
> 
> p.s. Next time, can you tell me before you lose internet for over a month?
> 
> p.p.s. Still an arse.
> 
> p.p.p.s. Mrs. Hudson rescued your violin. I had every intention of smashing it.

 

> Sent: September 10
> 
> **Subject:** In that case, I shall have to improve in the future.
> 
> Dr. Watson,
> 
> I will endeavor to inform you in the future if our communications will be delayed. However, I was not anticipating the sudden departure to Nepal.
> 
> M has been particularly difficult to track these past few months. My brother assures me that our communications are secure, but please be careful. Let Lestrade know immediately if you see anything suspicious.
> 
> Since I know you care about these sorts of trivialities, the Himalayas were beautiful.
> 
> The vegetation was sparse and I paid particular attention to the growth past the tree line. I attempted to take some biological samples for further study, but I was only able to carry a few extra pounds of material.
> 
> There were fourteen of us, counting the two sherpas and myself. There was a young boy, about thirteen, with his single mother. The boy was sick - I believe he had glioma, though the mother never said. He was very excited about the climb. Apparently it had been a dream of his to see Mt. Everest. The trip was being paid for by some sort of programme for terminally ill children.
> 
> S

 

> **Sent:** September 12
> 
> **Subject:** Arse
> 
> Mr. Sigerson,
> 
> Be careful.
> 
> Did the little boy make it to the peak?
> 
> John

 

> **Sent:** September 13
> 
> **Subject:** I miss you
> 
> No.

 

> **Sent:** September 14
> 
> **Subject:** I do too.
> 
> I’m sorry to hear that.
> 
> Should we talk about this?
> 
> I mean. I know we don’t. Talk. About this sort of thing. But. If you want to, we can, yeah?
> 
> I know you don’t do the whole feelings bit, and all, and I’m well rubbish at it myself, but.
> 
> Can you come home?
> 
> Will you ever be able to?

 

> **Saved:** September 17
> 
> **Subject:** (None)
> 
> I don’t know.
> 
> John, I

Sherlock rubbed his forehead with the flat of his palm. He had been staring at the blinking cursor for what felt like hours, typing words, sentences, paragraphs even, but always deleting them. He glanced over at the alarm clock on the bedside table of his dingy motel room. 02:17.

Sherlock shook his head and shut the laptop with a click. He would try again tomorrow.


	2. Prompt #2 - The Empty Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Challenge Number/Title: [Prompt #2 – The Empty Glass](http://projectteambeta.com/ptbwritingchallenge2013-2-the-empty-glass/)  
> Date Posted: 27 September, 2013
> 
> Fandom: Sherlock BBC  
> Rating: T  
> Genre: Canon  
> Content Descriptors: Fluff/Angst  
> Character Pairing: John/Sebastian Moran, John & Sherlock
> 
> Beta'd by [percygranger](http://archiveofourown.org/users/percygranger)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loosely connected to Prompt #1.

"Another, please."

The bartender’s grey eyes flickered up to meet John’s before smoothly turning towards the tumbler in his left hand, right hand pivoting the flask of single malt scotch to pour out and splash against the glass.

John reached for the whisky as soon as it clicked against the counter. With his other hand, he tugged fretfully at the sleeve of his t-shirt, which kept riding up his bicep. Instead of his typical jumpers and jeans, he was wearing a form-fitting black t-shirt and army-issue camouflage trousers that hung low on his hips. His dog tags gleamed silver in the dim light shining off the bar.

"I don’t usually get this drunk," John said, half-apologising.

The bartender leaned over to wipe a towel over the countertop next to John’s glass. "No, you don’t."

John frowned. "How would you know?" His tone was accusing, combative. "You’ve been gone for three years." 

The bartender’s eyes flicked up to meet John’s. "It’s obvious."

So he wanted to play this game, did he? "Obvious?" John parroted, pausing to take a slow sip from his glass. "Obvious how?"

Sherlock looked back down to where his hands were rubbing methodical circles on the tile. There was something fluid and graceful in his movements as he wiped down the bar, and John's gaze lingered on those long, dexterous fingers. It was easier than focussing on his face. With his eyes half-hidden, his features were a disconcerting blend of familiar and wholly alien. His prominent cheekbones and full mouth were masked by ginger hair, dark-rimmed glasses, what appeared to be a broken nose, and the barest hint of red-brown stubble. 

John set down his glass. "Do I just have that kind of face?"

"Don’t be ridiculous," Sherlock snapped. When John stayed silent, he finally straightened up and sighed. "An alcoholic wouldn't start the evening with Glenfiddich."

"Oh, come off it." John grimaced as he took a larger swallow than he’d intended. "You can do better than that. If it’s really so obvious, then prove it."

"It’s in your wallet and your mobile, the way you hold yourself, the state of your clothes, your taste in alcohol."

"Yeah?"

"Like I said, obvious."

John snorted. "Go on. I know you want to."

"Fine." Sherlock straightened, setting the dish towel aside. "You ordered scotch - a reasonably expensive choice, meant to be savoured. You’re paying cash, not credit card, so you’re well aware of the true cost of your drinking. The way you look at the other patrons indicates your general dislike of your surroundings. Bars bring back unpleasant memories. But you do not have the tell-tale signs of an addict."

John threw back his glass in one smooth toss, the scotch tumbling down his throat like liquid fire. It burned as he swallowed, but he resisted the urge to cough, just breathing in through his nose and watching the sharp glittering eyes of the man across from him.

He would never forget those eyes.

"Pour me another."

Sherlock hesitated, eyebrows drawing in slightly. "Perhaps you've had enough for one night?"

John gritted his teeth. "Another."

Sherlock exhaled slowly, reaching for John’s glass. Their fingertips brushed as he plucked the tumbler from John’s grasp. 

John glanced around the bar once more. Sherlock had emailed him the description of his would-be-assassin: ex-military, like John, so close-cropped hair, an athletic build, the remnants of a tan at the wrists and on his face and neck; dishonourable discharge for violence and disobeying a superior officer, so likely aggressive and dominant, with an attraction to submissive strength; and a trained sniper, so observant and patient when securing his target.

"I don't know why you couldn't have just told me what he'd be wearing," John grumbled under his breath.

Sherlock pursed his lips in annoyance. "Four o’clock. Green top, indigo jeans."

John sighed. Great. Just as he was starting to get pissed, their target finally chose to appear.

Moving his hand to tangle in the hair at his nape, John swivelled his head around, cracking his neck and sneaking a glance at the man Sherlock had pointed out.

"D’you think if I buy him a drink he’ll listen to me whinge about my arsehole of a flatmate?"

Sherlock slammed John’s glass down on the counter slightly more forcefully than was necessary, and turned his back to John as he fiddled with the bottles of hard liquor sitting in rows behind the bar. In the mirror, John could see Sherlock’s mouth drawn into a thin line. 

He could also see their target approaching the bar.

John glanced over at the man, throwing him a small smile and taking another pull of whisky.

The man settled onto the empty stool next to John, who ducked his head and smiled into his drink.

"Gin and tonic," the man said, an odd lilt to his voice, and Sherlock nodded and started filling a glass.

John continued throwing glances at the man. He was solidly built; probably half a foot taller than him and almost half again as wide. His skin gleamed bronze under the flourescent lights, and his blond hair was cropped short. He was wearing sunglasses even in the dim light, and a pack of cigarettes stuck out of the back pocket of his jeans.

 _Nice arse,_ John noted.

Not for the first time, John regretted revealing his sexuality to his flatmate. Ever since John admitted he was bi, Sherlock seemed to think that he would be a useful tool for seduction of either gender. Never mind that John hadn’t gone on the pull since uni.

The man next to him laughed quietly, a low vibration that shook his shoulders and was barely audible in the general din of their surroundings. John realised, with some embarrassment, that he was still looking at the man’s arse, and his eyes snapped up to meet the man’s in the mirror behind the bar. He was grinning, one eyebrow raised. John felt a flush crawl slowly up his neck, and he looked away.

"I’m Seb," the man volunteered.

"John," he replied, trying to fight his blush.

"Did you want a fag?" Seb reached into his back pocket and pulled out the pack of cigarettes, holding them out to John.

"I..." John swallowed. His face felt like it was on fire. "I don’t smoke."

Seb’s smile turned predatory. "In that case, can I buy you a drink?"

John swallowed before managing a shaky smile. It felt like secondary school all over again. "Yeah."

In the mirror, John saw Sherlock’s face twist into a pleased smirk.

Sherlock set down another whisky in front of John, throwing him a flirtatious wink as he did so. John suddenly wished his camo trousers weren’t so tight.

Seb, meanwhile, was eyeing John’s dog tags curiously. 

"RAMC," John supplied.

Seb smiled. "I was Territorial Army, myself."

"Yeah?"

Seb stayed silent, instead taking another pull from his glass.

"D’you ever miss it?" John asked, angling his body towards Seb. _Don’t fuck this up, Watson._

"I make do," Seb replied, tossing John a smirk and scooting ever-so-slightly closer.

As John drained the last of his glass, he noticed something scrawled on the cocktail napkin beneath it.

_Invite him back to yours._

John was going to _kill_ Sherlock.

"You, ah..." John cleared his throat. "You want to get out of here?"

Seb’s smile widened, white teeth gleaming. "I’d love to."


End file.
